I have a common reputation as a real ladies man
That’s humored me through a thousand lonely nights
A constant expectation that I feel’s a sacred sham
But then, rumors rarely turn out to be right
Tears in my whiskey; salt in my wounds
Years the locust has claimed
Ancient trophies clutter my room
But none to line my empty grave
I wake with a yearning to make something of my life
But it seems opportunities are like sand
Fragile dreams slip away like a whisper in a prophet’s mouth
Or a word that doesn’t rhyme in a poet’s hand
I attack situations with an air of confidence
To put my loyal followers at ease
Doubts that plague me are pushed beyond the fringe
To worry the soul of my fragile dreams
copyright 2010 Donald Paul Harris